saturday morning in the printmaking studio

this is the sound the good ink makes,
the way soaked paper will sink
up to your wrists in pulp and sizing,
the methyl alcoholic heat between your
fingers.

a rhythm of ghostprint,
wash hands, swig of coffee.

i have always been a mess
of inkfingers and bruises,
the girl with her own thumbs
for thimbles. i don't remember
the last time i wore an apron.

now you
teach me how to turn the
ship's wheel of a press,
tighten until it kicks back,
blot rags and newsprint. 

you point out the box
of rosin marked "cancer."
i think, everything in this room
could kill me. you assure me
it would only be slowly. 

i have forgotten how little
i trust my own hands, but
i can learn.

this is the sound
the good ink makes.